


Tah Tay Tee Toh Too

by karotsamused



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - Singin' In The Rain, Arrrrousal, Everybody was a dope, I can't make love to a bush!, M/M, Prohibition, Talkies, This really does suffer for lacking Lena Lamont
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karotsamused/pseuds/karotsamused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Scott is Don Lockwood, Stiles is Cosmo Brown, and Derek is the diction coach trying to keep them on task. At least they don't break out into spontaneous tap dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tah Tay Tee Toh Too

**Author's Note:**

> This all came about because Stiles said "Ar-r-r-rousal" and it, uh. Fit.
> 
> A bijillion thanks to my Bean, for the proofread and the adjustments and the flailing and only making fun of me a little bit. Mostly in casting the stage actors in Shakespearean roles. Especially that awesome argument over who got to be Horatio.

"Alright, that was good," said Derek. He lifted the book balanced in his open palm and said, "Now try this. Repeat after me. 'Can't'."  
  
"Can't," echoed Scotty McCall, but his tone was thin and unsure.  
  
Derek shook his head. "Almost. Shoulders back, chest out, deep breath, round 'a'. 'Can't'."  
  
Scotty lifted his head, and straightened. He pulled his shoulders back and projected a nice, even "Can't."  
  
Derek nodded, and Scotty grinned.  
  
After the success of  _The Jazz Singer_ , all the movie studios in Hollywood were scrambling over themselves to outfit their sets for sound. Actors and props counted, and it was only feasible to rebuild the latter. As film actors scrambled to find their lines, stage actors settled into lucrative positions as diction coaches.  
  
Derek had taken a vacation from a comfortable summer's run as Laertes to assist Monumental Pictures with their transition. He found himself assigned to one half of Whitte and McCall, the stars of Monumental's incredibly popular buddy slapstick movies. Whitte and McCall were the best of friends onscreen, getting into silly scrapes and wacky capers, and always getting the beautiful girls at the end. Whitte was the handsomer of the two, the straight man and general stick-in-the-mud. McCall was the mischievous one with all the dreamy plans and the charm the ladies couldn't resist.  
  
Onscreen, they were close enough to call each other "Jacky" and "Scotty". Offscreen, well.  
  
Whitte and McCall had been given a chance to choose a stage actor to teach them to speak on camera. As Whitte had the highest billing in the credits, he went first, and demanded the lead actor for himself. Isaac had readily agreed, because he was classically trained and always willing to share the finer points of his craft. He had opinions, and criticism, and was not in the least an ego-stroking yes-man. This, apparently, did not follow the plot that Whitte had envisioned.  
  
Monumental's walls were still in the process of being soundproofed. Isaac was an intense and powerful Hamlet, but he was also generally a gentle man and Whitte's temper rattled the walls.  
  
Scotty, on the other hand, just shrugged off the muffled swearing from the next room and tried his best to project.  
  
"Feet apart," said Derek. "You're stable. You're strong. You can take a punch, right?"  
  
Scotty laughed. "A stage punch!"  
  
"You still started out doing stunts. So use your whole body to talk." Derek stood behind him and prodded between his shoulders until he straightened up. "You can't stand him."  
  
"I - augh!" Scotty jumped, then swatted Derek's hand away. "Okay, okay."  
  
He straightened, took a deep breath, and repeated, "I can't stand him."  
  
"Better," said Derek.  
  
The door to the room opened, and another young man poked his head in. He, like Scotty, wore slacks and a button-up shirt under a well-fitting sweater. For young guys, the two of them were impeccably well-dressed, but bore the similarity of wardrobe that came from being old friends. It took real affection for a man to go clothes shopping with a companion.  
  
Where Scotty had dark curls, his friend's hair was shorn close to his skull, like dirty blond peach fuzz. He smiled. "Mind if I watch?"  
  
Scotty grinned, turning toward the door. "No," he said, spreading his hands wide in welcome.  "Come on in."  
  
Derek was about to refuse him, because the last thing Scotty needed was another distraction from the thrilling and engaging world of diction, but his friend lit up like a sparkler and said, "Holy cow! You're Derek Hale? I saw you when you were Don Pedro! Much Ado, last winter?"  
  
Derek blinked, startled at having been recognized. He found his free hand clasped in a firm shake as the introduction was blurted at him -- "Stiles Stilinski. I'm the entire music department here. You're teaching Scott to talk?"  
  
"I am," said Derek, and Stiles beamed.  
  
"That's swell, just swell. I won't get in the way, I swear."  
  
"Stiles already knows how to talk," said Scotty. "He never stops."  
  
Stiles pulled a face. Scotty wrinkled his nose.  
  
Derek never understood how casting decisions were made, really. Scotty and Stiles behaved like real best friends, the kind that could be boyish together. In comparison to the chemistry between Scotty and Stiles, Jacky didn't have the fizz of baking soda and vinegar.  
  
Derek watched the two of them silently war for a moment, then raised his book and cleared his throat.  
  
"Oh!" said Stiles, and hopped out of Derek's line of sight. He shuffled from foot to foot before settling, like a bird, behind Derek's shoulder.  
  
Scotty snapped to attention. "I can't stand him!"  
  
"That was awful," said Derek. Stiles began to snicker.  
  
Derek glanced over his shoulder, wearing one of his better glares. Stiles only grinned at him and bit his lip.  
  
Derek sighed, then flipped a few pages to the section on tongue twisters. He needed to jump-start their session. Tongue twisters always seemed to make people competitive. Derek had seen enough cast parties dissolve into She Sells Seashells speed competitions to know that a fool and his fricatives could be intensely interesting.  
  
"Alright, try this. Round vowels, rolled 'r's. 'Around the rocks, the rugged rascal ran'."  
  
Behind him, Stiles shivered. Derek could  _feel_ it.  
  
Scotty tried gamely, "Ar-round the r-rocks--"  
  
"Nuh uh," said Stiles. He took a step closer, reaching over Derek's shoulder to steady the book as he read from it. Derek felt the trouble rolling in, like the thick anticipation in the sky before a thunderstorm. Stiles' arm rested on his shoulder, his chest nearly pressed to Derek's back.  
  
"Around," Stiles began, rolling his tongue perfectly on the 'r'.  
  
"The rocks," he continued, turning his head so his breath made the hair on the back of Derek's neck stand on end.  
  
"The rugged," he breathed, his lips a hair's breadth from Derek's ear.  
  
"Rascal," he purred, lingering on the roll of his tongue.  
  
Stiles paused a beat, only a beat, before snapping right out of Derek's personal space and flourishing as he bowed, projecting like a master orator. "Ran!"  
  
Scotty raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I'mma do it like that."  
  
"I like the one about sinful Caesar more," said Stiles, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks.  "I heard the guy had allergies."  
  
Derek turned, eyeing him. "Music department, huh?"  
  
Stiles shrugged. "Or the one about the smart fellows."  
  
"Toy boat. Fifteen times. Go."  
  
Stiles grinned, and gamely launched into it. About three  _toy boys_ later, he succumbed to the giggles that had already overtaken Scott.  
  
"You did that on purpose!" said Stiles, his finger raised in accusation.  
  
"So did you," said Derek evenly, staring Stiles down until he capitulated with both hands raised in surrender.  
  
Scotty said, "You're not gonna make me do that 'toy boat' thing, are you?"  
  
"That's too advanced for either of you," said Derek. "I haven't heard you manage the rugged rascal."  
  
Behind him, Stiles muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "I'll manage  _your_ rugged rascal."  
  
Derek didn't feel guilty in the least about turning on him and frog-marching him out by the collar.  


* * *

  
When, later, Derek stood by the edge of the set to help Scotty practice his lines before each scene, he found himself glancing around. There were a lot more people on the edges of things, here, the crew not so much hiding in black as just out of view of the camera.  
  
Stiles was in the director's booth, watching the sound technician fuss over the levels. His expression was a mix of exasperation and restraint, his hands curled around his own elbows. Somewhere along the way he'd lost the sweater, and instead the clean white of his shirt was bisected by a fine pair of suspenders. And, hell, but his slim frame practically vibrated with the order to remain silent. Derek could watch the words hit Stiles' throat and rattle about in his mouth, beating against his lips before they were again swallowed.  
  
And suddenly, Derek felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up again. The memory of Stiles over his shoulder, his warm breath and his rolling tongue and the unabashed invitation of a kid that knew he couldn't possibly be taken seriously.  
  
Because that would be dangerous. And stupid. And honestly, it was just a meaningless alliteration.  
  
He didn't realize he'd stopped paying attention until the director bellowed out "Cut!" and Scotty gave him a hopeful look, searching for his praise.  
  
Derek blinked at him, then nodded. He was sure Scotty had done just fine. If the way Whitte was ignoring Isaac was any indication, the two of them had just turned in another stellar performance, totally beyond reproach or commentary.  
  
There were a few jumbled moments where Derek just tried to stay out of the way. He found himself shuffled more and more toward the booth, out of the line of the camera, better able to see where Scotty's marks were. The kid knew how to play to the camera, certainly. His whole consciousness revolved on a spot he never looked at or touched. His whole body was artful, remarkable in its grace.  
  
But adding words to the mix was like throwing a bowling pin to a juggler that had only been practicing with balls. Suddenly, Scotty was clumsy from the neck up. But with the rest of his body and the strength of the slapstick in the script, he'd do just fine.  
  
Jacky's tone had grown sour on harder lines. The more syllables he was given, the stormier his expression became. As soon as Isaac tried to tell him, though, he closed off and got darker.  
  
And then, like a ray of sunshine through the clouds, Scotty's face lit up and he cried, "Danny! Hi!"  
  
Danny, fresh off of his own scenes for later in the film, sauntered up in a turtleneck and a fringed coat and an absolutely absurd ascot tied around his neck at a jaunty side angle. He walked right onto the set and nodded to Scott, but tucked an arm around Jacky's shoulders.  
  
Everything changed. Derek could see Isaac's mental arithmetic play out on his face. Soon, the two of them were critiquing Jacky's diction and the storminess had left him.  
  
Stiles, taking the hint, emerged from the director's booth and started tag-teaming with Derek to help Scotty in return. When Derek offered a suggestion, Stiles reinforced it with a warm tease, to make Scotty laugh and help it sink in.  
  
"Don't forget, the microphone's in that plant. You're being mindful of it but it's affecting your performance," said Derek.  
  
Stiles grinned. "Yeah, it's a little. Um. Stiff," he said, then locked every joint and staggered toward Scotty, stammering out Scotty's lines in monotone.  
  
Scotty cuffed him, Stiles laughed, and the next take -- was better.  
  
Stiles leaned his shoulder against Derek's. Derek glanced down at him out of the corner of his eye, taking Stiles in profile. The long curve of his eyelashes, the way the corners of his mouth twitched into flashes of smiles. The small scar on the shell of his ear. The beginnings of stubble on his jaw.  
  
And then, his soft, brown eyes returning Derek's gaze.  
  
Stiles' mouth went a little slack. Derek turned his gaze back to Scotty, and ignored the soft outrush of Stiles' breath beside him.  
  
It was a joke. It had been a joke, without invitation, without offer.  
  
That didn't make the rest of the afternoon any easier, when Derek only grew increasingly more aware of Stiles' presence by his side. Stiles' voice, his laugh, his wit. The smell of him, in the afternoon heat. Cologne and skin.  
  
The crease in the back of his shirt where his suspenders had caught a fold and pressed it flat.  
  
Derek's hands itched to tug Stiles' shirt taut over his shoulders. He curled his hands into fists, but the sudden tensing of his body was hard to hide with Stiles' shoulder pressed against his.  
  
Stiles smiled at him, and leaned in to whisper, "Little different from being in a theater, isn't it?" His words rushed over Derek's ear on his warm breath. When he pulled back, one eyebrow raised, his expression held nothing but friendly sympathy.  
  
It didn't stop Derek from leaning in to take his own breath by Stiles' ear, his mouth a hair away from that little scar, so he could just barely murmur, "Yeah."  
  
Stiles went very still.  
  
Derek watched the flush climb up from the base of his throat.  
  
"More free food," he whispered, and when he nodded toward the crafts table his nose brushed against Stiles' cheekbone.  
  
"Um," breathed Stiles, his exhale gone shaky. "Yeah."  
  
They were quiet for a long moment, watching as Scotty executed a perfect fall out of his chair. His splayed legs and flailing arms made it look worse than it was. When the camera cut, he just rolled to his knees and popped up to his feet, letting wardrobe and makeup dust him off with a smile.  
  
Softly, Stiles asked, "So which one's your favorite? Tongue twister, I mean."  
  
Derek looked over at him for a long moment, then shrugged. He decided to take the risk, then, and answered, "The one about the sock cutter."  
  
"I don't know that one. Is it in your book?"  
  
Derek shook his head. "No. It's just one line. One of those things you hear." He leaned in, prompting a conspiratorial grin from Stiles.  
  
"Is this like 'red leather, yellow leather'?"  
  
"That wasn't bad," said Derek, with a nod. Stiles beamed. Derek continued, "Or any of the ones about sifting thistles."  
  
Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Is the sock cutter sifting thistles?"  
  
"Of course not. The sock cutter cuts socks."  
  
Derek could see the competitiveness rising in Stiles' expression, and found himself anticipating his next move. "He's a sock cutter that cuts socks, not a thistle sifter that sifts thistles?" murmured Stiles.  
  
"I don't know, maybe you need to repeat that for me. A few times. So I know you've got it."  
  
They were quiet for a moment as filming started again. But Stiles leaned in close and put his mouth to Derek's ear, whispering so the percussion of his consonants was like a touch.  
  
"The sock cutter cuts socks, the thistle sifter sifts thistles," he began.  
  
Derek let out a slow breath through his nose. Stiles shifted closer, and sped up. "The sock cutter cuts socks, the thistle shifter shifts thistles - damn - the sock cutter sucks cocks, the -" Derek felt the huff of a stifled laugh against his ear. "Oh. Silly me."  
  
"Mm," said Derek, not moving. He kept his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
"So which do you do?" asked Stiles.  
  
Scotty clattered out of his chair and to the ground. The director yelled "Cut!"  
  
"I'm a diction coach," said Derek, and walked back on set to help Scotty with his next lines.  


* * *

  
As it turned out, the Love Interests had work to do in the late afternoon, so Derek actually got to spend a bit of time with  _their_ coach, too. Lydia was a terrific Ophelia, and she'd managed lessons for both Allison  _and_ Erica. The sharp grin she wore as the girls spoke their lines with perfect, beautiful enunciation was entirely earned.  
  
She also noticed Whitte. And quickly. Just about as quickly as Stiles noticed  _her_.  
  
With Stiles at his left shoulder, and Lydia at his right, Derek found himself in the middle of a sexual tension sandwich, and not one he was particularly keen on flavoring. Then again, he supposed that if Stiles was going to put someone's job in jeopardy with ostentatious flirting, it might as well not be his. Because he had a hard time not flirting in return.  
  
When Stiles had stared at Lydia for a full three takes, Derek just backed up out of the way.  
  
Still, he overheard Stiles' excited, "God, is the entire Company here now? Miss Martin, you were an inspired Beatrice. Your Benedick could hardly keep up with you. Seriously!"  
  
And Lydia, in return, offered a completely poised, "Nobody can keep up with me, darling. What do you do, exactly?"  
  
"I'm the music department," said Stiles, scraping a hand over his shorn head.  
  
"What do you play?" asked Lydia politely.  
  
"Oh. Everything. But for a picture like this it's all about the piano and maybe a little bit of fiddle. Silly movies, you know. Romances, I've got to break out the woodwinds. Action pictures are a lot of percussion and brass."  
  
"That's nice," said Lydia.  
  
Stiles lit up like Christmas morning. "Yeah? It's not as interesting as--"  
  
"Rolling!" thundered the director. And if Finstock happened to be a raging neurotic, at least his every word reverberated through the set.  
  
Derek couldn't move until the take had ended. He was forced to stand four paces behind Stiles and Lydia, watching over their shoulders. Nothing threw cold water on budding interest faster than watching said object of interest simper over someone else.  
  
Maybe it wasn't simpering. But it was the kind of star-struck shine that, for Stiles, had obviously worn off of Allison and Erica.  
  
Scotty was getting better and better, so Derek decided he'd go stand with Danny and Isaac to help them keep an eye on Jacky. And yet, from that end of the set he had a clear line of sight on Stiles and Lydia, and the way he kept whispering to her with a smile playing about his lips. His nervous mouth, his seeking eyes. His hands, making little gestures. His fingertips drumming on his forearms.  
  
And Lydia, making eye contact not with Stiles, but with Derek. And  _smiling._  
  
Derek was only grateful that the shooting day came to an abrupt end not a moment later, when the head of Monumental Pictures tripped over the power cord to the microphone. The plant housing the microphone fell over in a spatter of soil and broken pottery, the sound technician wailed at the reverb in the booth, and Jacky accelerated into a stage four tantrum that lasted far longer than Derek's patience for it.  
  
He was just a diction coach, not even working specifically for the actor having a meltdown. So he backed away from the crowd working to soothe Jacky's wounded ego and stole an apple from the crafts table on his way out.  
  
The lot was a mess of busy workers carrying set parts, the inexplicable golf cart laden with ladders, the odd parade of girls in matching costumes. Derek took a bite of his apple and was thankful to find it crisp. He walked out through the cooling afternoon and did  _not_ think about the brush of Stiles' lips against his ear.  
  
He managed about fifty paces in denial before realizing he couldn't kid himself. It chafed. Horribly.  
  
Stiles was slim and weirdly graceless and eager and exactly the kind of guy Lydia could wrap around her finger, then leave coiled on the floor in her wake. And Derek had no reason not to let her, because she'd make Stiles  _enjoy_ it. Any intervention on his part was not only totally unwarranted - given that he'd known Stiles all of a few hours and nobody told Lydia what to do - but could insult Stiles. Which would, obviously, strain his professional relationship with Scotty.  
  
Derek only realized he'd mauled his apple when he bit down hard on a seed.  
  
He spat, ignoring the scandalized gasp of a nearby chorus girl, and heard a snort from behind him.  
  
Boyd gave him a wry smile when he turned. He'd been Horatio in their production of Hamlet, and Danny's diction coach. He looked remarkably comfortable and refreshed for having spent a day hard at work.  
  
"Hey. If you're leaving, will you be my ride home?" he asked.  
  
Derek looked him up and down, then nodded. "Sure."  
  
Boyd shouldered up beside him as they made their way to the parking lot. "Looks like my day was better than yours. I heard McCall wasn't so bad."  
  
"It was fine," said Derek. He pitched the remnants of his apple in a nearby bin. "How was yours?"  
  
"Easy. He trained on the stage, you know. We just walked around the lot for an hour."  
  
Derek huffed, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Don't rub it in."  
  
"You asked," said Boyd. But he was mercifully quiet as they climbed into Derek's car, and rode along comfortably beside him on their way home. The expensive stars' neighborhoods gave way to more reasonable surroundings, and the housing blocks a lowly stage actor could afford. Derek and Boyd lived in the same building, and most of the others in their Company weren't far away. Derek was accustomed to giving rides, especially when his passengers regularly pitched in for gas or groceries.  
  
He followed Boyd into the building, and when Boyd turned to him and said, "Someone looks like he needs a little something," he just nodded and let himself into Boyd's apartment. He sank down onto the sofa.  
  
"When will Isaac get here?" he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.  
  
Boyd shrugged. "He'll get here when he gets here."  
  
Isaac had, at one point, done a few favors and signed a few autographs and had gotten himself a line on some rather good liquor. From a real distillery, not a housewife's bathtub. And Isaac, because  _carrying_ the stuff was already dangerous as hell, was quite happy to take Boyd up on the offer to store his alcohol in Boyd's icebox.  
  
Boyd flipped the radio on. There was a baseball game in full swing. Boyd settled beside Derek.  
  
Slowly, slowly, Derek felt himself relax. He ignored his ruffled feathers and focused on the game.  
  
By the time Isaac trudged in, exhausted and worn, they'd waited three innings. Boyd and Derek both rose up off of the sofa to help liberate Isaac from the bottles tied under his clothes, and poured cocktails over ice.  
  
Isaac mumbled into the mouth of his cup until he ran out of words. The three of them ended up groaning when their team lost the game. They ate scrambled eggs and green olives for dinner. Isaac fell asleep in Boyd's armchair, his feet bare and his head tipped forward onto his chest.  
  
By moments, Derek settled back into his own skin. He could think back on Stiles' lips without the feeling of fire ants stinging down his neck. It was more like a small herd of spiders. And from spiders,  it was just a step down to uncomfortable chills, and then a mild itch, and then - well, then Stiles wouldn't affect him at all.  
  
Not at all.  


* * *

  
"Moses supposes his toeses -- that doesn't even make any sense."  
  
Scotty perched on a stool, his hands braced on his knees. "Toeses? Seriously?"  
  
"It's rhythmic," said Derek with a shrug. "If you can't do it as written, improvise."  
  
Scotty huffed, then straightened. "Moses supposes his toes are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously. For Moses, he knowses - augh."  
  
Derek fought a smile. "From the beginning."  
  
"Sure thing, Sarge," Scotty groused, but he leaned toward the table to read again. "Moses supposes his toes - ha - are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously. For Moses knows damn' well his toes aren't flowers, so I don't get what kind of insane thought experiment he's trying to pull anyway."  
  
"You lost the round tones once you started to cuss."  
  
"Damn!" said Scotty, but with a perfectly round 'a'.  
  
"Now _this_ is a lesson I'd like to be in on!" cried Stiles, letting himself into their little classroom.  
  
Derek felt the spiders on the back of his neck start to sting.  
  
Scotty rolled his eyes. "Do you even work?"  
  
"You know how you sleep in until ten or eleven? I'm up at six. This is my lunch break." Stiles wiggled half a sandwich at Scotty and came to lean his hip against the table beside Derek.  
  
"So what's this about swearing like a thespian?" asked Stiles with a grin. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed around his smile.  
  
Scotty lifted his chin. "I'm good at it, is what."  
  
"Yes, spectacular," murmured Derek.  
  
Stiles leaned back against the table, turning his hips toward Derek. It gave him a perfect view down the line of Stiles' body, his suspenders laying flat over his chest and creasing his shirt where it was tucked into his slacks.  
  
The fire ants were most definitely back. Derek itched to touch him.  
  
Stiles leaned back a little further, putting his elbow on the table, gesturing toward Derek with his sandwich. He had to be saying something, but Derek only wanted to push him down the rest of the way and --  
  
Scotty was laughing. "No, we'll never get her to agree to that."  
  
"Are you kidding? It's genius. Just because you've got to balance out your colors onscreen doesn't mean the two of you can't sneak around when the cameras are off. Tell him, Derek. Allison is head over heels for him, isn't she."  
  
Derek blinked. Allie Argent, Jacky's gal? The pretty brunette that always managed to make him smile despite Scotty's antics? The one that always gave him a peck on the cheek just before the credits rolled?  
  
Scotty flushed, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "No, she's not. We don't even really get to talk."  
  
"Talking is a formality," said Stiles, waving his sandwich again. One of the pickles fell out and landed on his shirt.  
  
Neither Stiles nor Scotty seemed to notice, not even when the brine seeped pale green into the blue fabric.  
  
Scotty said, "What, really? No!"  
  
Stiles said, "Look, you don't work romances so maybe you haven't picked up on it, but a heated stare is worth half an hour of dialogue, maybe more."  
  
Derek sighed. He pulled the pickle from Stiles' shirt and said, "You've got a stain now."  
  
Stiles blinked at him, then looked at the pickle. "Where'd that? Oh. Hey!" He licked his thumb and started to scrub at his shirt. When that didn't work, he untucked his shirt from his slacks and slipped the wet spot into his mouth.  
  
And through Stiles' undershirt Derek could see a dark trail of hair diving below Stiles' belt.  
  
And worse, when Stiles gave up on the stain, he took the time to tuck his shirt back into his slacks, grousing all the while.  
  
And Derek, oh. Derek was stuck just holding the stupid pickle and watching him, feeling a thick dryness rise in the back of his throat.  
  
Stiles wriggled until his shirt was tucked in, then grinned at the pickle in Derek's hand. He took it and popped it into his mouth with a wink. "Thanks for holding on to that for me."  
  
Stiles sucked his fingers into his mouth and licked his lips.  
  
Derek mumbled, "Were you raised in a barn?" as he wiped his hand on his slacks.  
  
"Man, now I'm hungry. Hey, Derek, can we take a break for lunch?" asked Scotty.  
  
"Yeah," said Derek. He couldn't take his eyes off of Stiles. "Sure. I could eat."  
  
Stiles took a huge bite of his sandwich, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  
  
Scotty said, "Great!" and hopped off the stool, brushing past Derek to head out the door. Stiles watched him go, then knocked Derek in the chest with the back of the hand holding the sandwich.  
  
"What're you in the mood for?"  
  
Derek heard the door swing shut behind Scotty, leaving them alone.  
  
"I mean," continued Stiles, "are you even hungry? Really?"  
  
"No. You'd distracted him too much. Do you think he's really concerned with his diction now that you've put Allison into his head?"  
  
Stiles didn't even look sheepish. He took another bite of his sandwich and chewed the wad into one cheek. "Sorry," he said, grinning. "I mean, girls and pickles, hell of a way to derail your lesson."  
  
"You can blame it on the conversation, but really it's you." Derek kept his voice even, even if his eyes were locked on the grotesque stretch of Stiles' cheek. And the bulge in his throat as he swallowed. "Do you think you can hold off on the codependency long enough for me to get my work done?"  
  
"Aw, geez, teacher, I can be a good boy," said Stiles, batting his eyes.  
  
Derek crossed his arms. "I have yet to see it."  
  
"You have yet - who even  _talks_ like that?" Stiles had another fervent bite of his sandwich.  
  
"Disrespecting the teacher," said Derek, raising an eyebrow. He held Stiles' insouciant gaze until Stiles swallowed again, and a blush started to rise from the base of Stiles' throat.  
  
Stiles glanced away. "I'll getcha an apple tomorrow. How's that sound?"  
  
"Patronizing," said Derek. "And insufficient."  
  
Stiles was quiet for a moment. Derek could practically hear the hamster on the wheel inside his head as it desperately squeaked along.  
  
Finally, he said, "I'll have something for you by tomorrow, then. Something good."  
  
Derek snorted. "Surprise me."  
  
Stiles' smile quirked, then. He shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. "Mm-hm."  


* * *

  
The afternoon was quiet. Stiles kept his distance from Derek in favor of hovering around Lydia. And pushing Scotty closer and closer to Allison. And disappearing for a few hours before returning with a ukelele under one arm.  
  
Once Stiles had recovered the ukelele, he was nigh on intolerable, playing little songs between takes. He improvised lyrics, mostly about Lydia, his fingers flying nimbly over the strings. Still, the distraction he created meant that Scotty could chat with Allison without drawing too much attention. And the more Derek watched them, the more it was clear that the sparks were indeed flying. Allison looked almost like a little girl around Scotty, her body swaying as she curled up around herself, hiding in her hair. Scotty was giddy toward her, his megawatt smile always on display.  
  
Lydia, for her part, paid attention to everyone but Jacky. Jacky paid attention to everyone but Lydia. Even if it was to tell Stiles to shove his stupid ukelele where the sun didn't shine.  
  
Derek wondered if Stiles noticed. If it was as obvious to him as it was to everyone else watching that Lydia and Jacky were circling each other like predators going in for the kill.  
  
If Stiles did, he gave no sign. There weren't many words he could rhyme with "Lydia", but he was giving it a hell of a try. Once he got to "fastidious," though, he gave up and stuck to instrumentals. It was too late to keep Erica from laughing so hard her tea went out her nose. It was too late to keep Lydia from giving Stiles the kind of incredulous stare that wondered, as clear as if it had been spoken, just  _how_ deep Stiles was willing to dig this hole. But it was rather just in time to keep Scotty from going in for a kiss, no matter how brief, and mussing Allie's lips.  
  
So there was that.  
  
Even Isaac looked a bit better, laughing unabashedly at Stiles' songs. He used Jacky's irritation to his advantage, acting just sympathetic enough to get Jacky to cooperate a bit better with his coaching. Especially once he offered to take Jacky outside, somewhere more quiet.  
  
Derek saw them settle in a sliver of sunshine, Isaac's golden curls and Jacky's beautiful blue eyes and their heads bent together over the script. The flash of Isaac's smile, fleeting as a shadow across his face. And then Stiles strolling by in the way, strumming restlessly at his ukelele as he peered through the door to check on them.  
  
Stiles, his fingers never still, held the ukelele over the wet patch on his chest. When Finstock bellowed for quiet, Stiles turned it so the strings rested against his body and flattened his hands over the back. He stepped back out of the way when Jacky and Isaac jogged back in, bumping right into Derek.  
  
And stayed, his back against Derek's arm, with only a slight smile and apologetic glance over his shoulder.  
  
Derek waited out the take. He could practically feel Stiles breathing. Could smell Stiles' cologne, the same scent as the day before. And a little sunshine, a little sweat. Could memorize the constellations of freckles down his cheek and the back of his neck. Could tell, from the little hairs springing up wild above his collar that Stiles was due for a haircut.  
  
The take ended. Derek moved away.  
  
Stiles launched into another ukelele solo, serenading the makeup artists as they swarmed Scotty. He got his nose powdered for his trouble, and laughed so hard he hiccuped.  
  
Derek wondered at the indulgence surrounding Stiles. But Jacky had someone on which to focus his irritation, and Scotty had an outlet for his nerves. Stiles seemed like a lightning rod for their actor's impediments. He made Erica laugh, and gave Allison the opportunity to sidle up to Scotty and get his attention.  
  
The next take began. Stiles cradled his ukelele to his chest. His long fingers spread over the lacquered wood.  
  
Derek felt a small hand land between his shoulders. He looked down and found Lydia, giving him the sort of smile that could make a viper skittish. Lydia, who was known for her uncanny ability to predict, on the first read, just which cast members on any given show would end up swapping fluids. Lydia, who'd dramatically given up on predicting anything about Derek's inclinations, and had admitted temporary defeat over coffee one quiet Sunday morning. Lydia, who never gave up when her pride was on the line.  
  
She walked her nails up his back until she reached his collar, then smoothed it.  
  
He knocked her hand away with the back of his wrist. She turned away from him to smile at Stiles. She wiggled her fingers in a wave.  
  
Stiles wiggled back.  
  
Derek resisted the urge to react. Not while they were still filming. Not where Stiles could see. Not where Lydia could be convinced she'd scored a point.  
  
Though, from the way she smiled at him, she already knew.  


* * *

  
The next day, Stiles was gone. And the day after, as well. Derek heard from Scotty that he was busy conducting the orchestra they'd employed for the soundtrack, and coaching Allison through the song she had to sing for the opening credits. Derek also heard from Scotty that Stiles had let him in on her recording sessions, and he, Scotty, had gotten to hold her hand the whole time.  
  
Derek told Scotty he was glad for him, but he needed to focus. Saying her name made his "a" flatten out. So they spent a lot of time practicing her name with perfect, round vowels.  
  
The deeper into puppy love Scotty tumbled, the more amicable he was. More dreamy, but more amicable. It was a challenge, adjusting his lessons to keep Scotty's attention. For a person that enjoyed the thrill of teaching, perhaps it would have been a fun challenge. Derek was just grateful for the weekend when it finally came.  
  
He rejected an offer from Isaac to go out and get a drink, and another from Lydia to stay in and conspicuously _not_ have a drink. In the second case, he didn't particularly want the heart-to-heart she was going to try to have with him. He had the feeling it would involve her letting him down gently by asking him to commiserate with her on the hilarity of Stiles' affection for her. Or, worse, she'd have snared Jacky by then and wanted to show him off.  
  
His irritation might have bled into his tone when he rejected her. All he'd said was "No, thank you," but she'd laughed until he'd hung up.  
  
Instead, Derek settled himself on his ratty old sofa and flicked through a few plays he'd sussed out. Shakespeare was nice, but he'd felt the need to get out of the accent for a while, and he knew he had enough experience to be a viable competitor in a few upcoming auditions. Once the first experimental film came out of Monumental, once they settled into sound, they'd hire  _real_ diction coaches. Not stage actors on hiatus. They'd have a whole team, a department of them, that also helped with speaking to microphones. With keeping the props from clattering when they landed.  
  
He needed to get out of the soundstage frame of mind. He needed to get out of the tiny dramas of the Famous Whitte and McCall.  
  
About two acts in, he'd settled into something like his own skin again. The smell of ink and paper, the italics of stage directions melting down into muscle movement. The language burned into his body so he didn't so much read it as breathe it with the ease of years of practice.  
  
Laura played Juliet when she was barely twelve. It was historically accurate.  
  
And the line _O happy dagger_ rattled through Derek's chest the first time she sobbed it out. It fell around him like the patter of rain. Happy could mean  _fortunate_ , he learned. Among other things.  
  
From then on, she read plays with Derek, made him run her lines with her. He was Romeo, he was Mercutio, he was Tybalt, he was the Friar. And Laura had teased and cajoled and urged him until he was brave enough to follow her onstage.  
  
The allure for some directors, of having two actual siblings play a family's children, was too hard to resist. And as they grew up, and branched out, the hobby turned into a vocation. Their father had always smiled about it, and said he should have known better than to marry a singer.  
  
Their mother had always countered that it was entirely his fault for proposing.  
  
When the two of them had gone their separate ways, Laura to New York to sing like their mother, Derek to the sunny shores of California, it felt unnatural. Like they were too far apart, and even the long distance phone calls and the letters, the endless postcards and pictures couldn't bridge the gap.  
  
But Laura was happy in New York, truly happy, singing over a band that only buoyed her.  
  
And Derek was. If not happy, then at least on a path that was promising. He made a living as a stage actor, which was more than the chorus could say. And the more he turned himself inside-out under those hot lights, the better he slept.  
  
He was at least partially looking forward to going a distinguished gray, to tackling the roles of real  _men._  
  
Until then, he flicked through scripts on his living room sofa, gaging the worth of being the best friend versus the love interest.  
  
The knock at his door startled him out of it. He grunted to himself before he pushed to his feet, expecting Isaac, or maybe Boyd. Or --  
  
"Lydia?" he said, pulling the door open far enough to look out into the hallway.  
  
Stiles gave him a sheepish smile. "Nope. Not even close."  
  
Derek blinked, opening the door the rest of the way. Stiles continued, "She was how I got the address, though, so I guess I can give you half a point. Can I come in?"  
  
"Little busy," said Derek, even as he moved back out of the way.  
  
Stiles brushed past him, whistling as he caught sight of the stack of scripts by the couch. "Yeah, I'd say so. What's next? More Shakespeare?"  
  
Derek shut the door, struck by the oddity of bright, colorful Stiles against his dark brown walls. He wore a powder blue sweater and a crisp, white shirt with a violet necktie. He had his sleeves rolled up his forearms, so the crisp, white cuffs stood out against his skin. He bent like a willow over the script Derek had left open on the cushion, squinting at the text.  
  
"Probably," said Derek. "What do you want?"  
  
Stiles straightened. His smile surfaced again, reflexive and quick. He stuffed his hands into his pockets.  
  
"I was thinking about what you said." He pulled his hands from his pockets, tapping his own chest. "Or, uh, made  _me_ say. And thinking that maybe it's a little fast to, you know, be cutting up some socks or anything. But I've got these."  
  
Derek was a little busy being struck dumb by Stiles' audacity to be a good catch. But when Stiles pulled a pair of scissors from his pocket and lobbed them at Derek, he managed not to fumble them.  
  
Stiles bit his lip, looking over at Derek out of the corner of his eye. "They're kind of dull and weird-looking and it'll take them a long time to cut through a sock. I figured it was kind of a good metaphor?"  
  
Derek turned the scissors over in his hands. They were old, blunted with use, the grip pattern worn from the handles. The screw holding them together had gone black. Scissors that had been used to cut paper should never be used to cut cloth. Derek had learned that when he was very young, when Laura's thoughtful coupon-cutting for their mother had ruined her good sewing scissors. Scissors that had cut paper just gnawed at any fabric, wearing it down so it frayed and finally gave up under the onslaught in jagged rifts.  
  
"Metaphor for what," murmured Derek.  
  
Stiles shifted from foot to foot. "I was gonna say maybe a good, slow build-up to the actual cutting? Of socks. I mean. So maybe tongue twisters aren't so good for asking in a sort of roundabout way whether or not you'd wanna get a coffee. With me. Sometime."  
  
His grin flashed across his face, preceding a weak little laugh. "Or, uh. You know. Being  _tongue_ twisters and all, maybe they are."  
  
Derek was quiet for long enough that Stiles gave another nervous laugh and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, so. Uh."  
  
"I've got a cola with your name on it," said Derek, setting the scissors down on his kitchen counter.  
  
As Derek moved into the kitchen, which was as simple as moving from hardwood to tile, Stiles said, "Was that a crack about my age? Really? I'm the head of a major studio's music department!"  
  
"I didn't say you were stupid," said Derek, pulling two bottles out of his cupboard. As he cracked the caps off, he said, "Either you're a genius, or an experiment."  
  
"Both. It could be both," said Stiles, accepting a bottle. He rolled it against his palms. He took a swig, then wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, warm."  
  
"No ice," said Derek. "You realize what you've told me is an invitation to beat the shit out of you. And you gave me scissors."  
  
Stiles choked on a mouthful of soda. He coughed into his arm, his face twisting.  
  
Derek waited, taking a sip from his own bottle. It was warm and too sweet, heavy with foam.  
  
"Yeah," managed Stiles, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. "I'd considered that. I'd - definitely - considered that. And while I think you  _could_ , technically, knock all my teeth out and make me count 'em -- " Derek winced " -- I don't think you  _would_."  
  
He coughed again, licking his lips. "I mean. Since you put the scissors down and you're talking to me about it, I'm about ninety percent sure we're past that point."  
  
Derek nodded, once. Stiles' shoulders relaxed.  
  
"And if this is a kind of, uh. Coffee surrogate… ?" Stiles trailed off, then made a quiet questioning noise. He wiggled the bottle.  
  
Derek watched him for a moment. His traitorous mouth answered, "It's got caffeine in it, doesn't it?"  
  
Stiles laughed. "Reasonable facsimile, okay."  
  
"You don't need coffee," said Derek. Stiles had practically been vibrating from the moment Derek had let him in. But with Derek's admission, he'd started to slow down.  
  
Stiles rested the mouth of his bottle against his lip and looked down at the sofa. "We could sit," he said. "If you moved some of these."  
  
Derek watched him try to play it cool. How Stiles' features smoothed out as he studied the script nearest him. But his hands kept fiddling with the bottle, tapping out erratic rhythms along its side.  
  
"Or you could come here," he said, taking pity.  
  
Stiles jumped, setting the bottle down too hard on the arm of the sofa. It sloshed, but didn't spill. "I could - ah, yes. I, um."  
  
The first twinge of regret settled at the back of Derek's throat. Stiles was young, too young. He was a bundle of nerves.  
  
Stiles wiped his hands on his pants and ducked his head, looking up at Derek through his lashes. But then he straightened, and took a step forward. "Yeah."  
  
Derek waited. He waited until Stiles had crossed the length of the room to come to him, waited while Stiles looked him up and down like a puzzle he couldn't figure out.  
  
Stiles said, "Is it 'come here' like I think it's 'come here' or did you just want me to stand next to you?"  
  
"What are you expecting?"  
  
Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Not this. It's been surprise central since you let me in."  
  
"So what do you want?" asked Derek.  
  
Stiles' frustration showed on his face, but after a few moments he wiped it away. He answered the greater question, the one Derek had actually asked. "The preview, for the picture? It's showing tomorrow night. I want you to come with me, and sit in the back row while Finstock shits himself. And then after that I want to be able to take you back to Scotty's in case we all need to get roaring drunk. I'm going to try really hard not to get really roaring, but maybe just a  _little_ drunk."  
  
Derek sighed. Stiles ducked his head forward, letting out a sigh. "Though we might get shut out, since he's really hit it off with Allison. And no matter what they're probably going to want to be alone."  
  
"So you don't want to be a third wheel."  
  
"Don't," said Stiles, and then flattened his hand to Derek's chest. He lifted his head and met Derek's eyes. "That's not it at all. It's really not."  
  
Stiles' palm was so warm over his shirt. Without his conscious recognition, Derek covered Stiles' hand with his own. The fleeting flicker of a grin curved Stiles' mouth before it disappeared again.  
  
"I think maybe you know what I mean."  
  
"I'm not going to the preview," said Derek.  
  
Stiles deflated. "Can I come here after, then?"  
  
Derek sighed. "Not to drink. And you can't show up drunk. Scott might get away with it but--"  
  
"I won't," said Stiles quickly. He rubbed one little circle on Derek's chest with his palm. "The last thing I want is to get arrested. A big guy like you would probably do okay in prison, but I'm dead meat."  
  
"Or someone's best girl," murmured Derek. Stiles wrinkled his nose as he laughed.  
  
"See," he said, moving his fingertips to the collar of Derek's shirt. "That's why I like you. You're just so charming."  
  
The brush of Stiles' fingers over the side of his neck was a little clammy, a little damp. His touch was tentative, despite the strength in his voice. "Because, you know. I do. Like you."  
  
The admission, stilted as it was, lay heavy between them. Sure, Derek had heard propositions before, and confessions. Pretty girls that hid behind their hair, or swayed their hips, or tucked their hands up against their faces. Women that arched their backs. His love interests onstage. The waitress in the only sandwich shop that stayed open late enough for the cast to stumble through after last call.  
  
But Stiles just laid it out, with stupid dull scissors like their first conversation  _meant_ something to him.  
  
Derek caught Stiles' wrist and pulled his hand away. "Come back. After the preview."  
  
Stiles' expression fell, then recovered, and swiftly. Stiles plastered a smile onto his features.  
  
Derek's hand tightened around Stiles' wrist. "If you can promise you won't say anything that has to do with the studio, the movie, the actors, any of it." When Stiles nodded, he continued, "Okay. Good. I've got work."  
  
Maybe he was being an idiot. Maybe he was courting trouble. But his circle, and Stiles' would only intersect until the filming ended, he knew. If - when. When it went to hell, the fallout wouldn't be as widespread as it could be.  
  
With these thoughts, Derek comforted himself enough to release Stiles' wrist and go back to his place on the sofa. He took the bottle Stiles had left on the armrest and had a drink from it. It was warm, and too sweet. He lifted the script he'd been reading before he was interrupted, and tried to find his place again. He sank himself into it, not wanting to hear the door when it closed.  
  
After a long moment, Stiles sat down on the other cushion. Stiles put his cheek against Derek's shoulder to read along with him. Derek let it stay.


End file.
